I grab the door handle and take a deep breath. Under normal circumstances, that might be true. But if I get traded, he tries to blackmail Sawyer, and I didn't do everything in my power to stop that before I leave, I'd never forgive myself. She deserves her freedom from that prick.
"Just remember after the game," Tamiko says when I open the door, "that we're not commenting on trade rumors."
"I heard you." But I'm not sure I'm going to listen.
***
We lose to the Michigan Moose 4-2, and while I pick up a goal and an assist, I let my frustration get the best of me after the game. When a reporter asks about my performance versus the team's I tell them that I'm getting tired of every other line acting like spectators instead of players on the ice—letting the action happen around them instead of making plays. Within two minutes of the reporter leaving, Tamiko texts me to say she may have preferred when I just grunted at questions.
Fuck it. I just told the truth. Both Tamiko and Sawyer said they wanted me to be my authentic self in interviews, and I warned them they didn't actually want that. Well, here we are. I'm telling it like it is. When I was gushing about Sawyer, it was cool, but taking my teammates to task in public isn't. 
Cool. Cool.
By the time I've showered and changed, I've had enough time to decompress, and I realize that while—yes, we played shitty as a whole team—my frustration is more about the possibility of a trade. Jonathan, Sawyer's dad, said he'd only go to bat to keep me if we made the playoffs. The prick told me right before the game, and we needed to win this game to be in charge of our own fate. Now, we need a domino effect to happen with other teams to push us into the last playoff spot. The fact that we beat Michigan in pre-season is even more of a piss off. 
Not even seeing Sawyer when I exit the dressing rooms eases the tension coursing through me. Right now, her fate is as tied to the team's outcome as mine is, and I fucking hate it. All of it.
 "So..." Sawyer says, clearly gauging my mood, and I hate that she even feels she has to. 
I roll my shoulders to try to shrug off the shitty game and the awful circumstances, and the fact that my life feels out of control in a way I can't sustain.
"It's fine," I say, and I give her a tight smile before I settle my hand on the small of her back. "Is Chayton out yet?"
"We're still going to dinner?" She eyes me. "He scored two of those goals."
"I was there, thanks," I say. Sitting on the bench during all four goals, which makes me both happy and furious. 
"Sorry," she says, and she rises on her toes to kiss my cheek.
Breathing her in immediately resets my nervous system. She's the best cure for my mental health, and I draw her into a tight hug. 
"Fuck, I love you," I whisper. "You've got no idea, doc. No idea how much I love you."
"That good, huh?"
"You in my arms? Cures anything. Can't convince me otherwise."
"Do you think I can put that on my resume? Super hugger."
"No," I say, my voice gruff. "There'll never be any need to apply for another position anywhere."
"Dude," Chayton says, coming down the hallway toward us. "Not sure you should have let all those words out of your mouth in that interview. Were the rest of the guys still talking to you?"
"Yeah, well," I say, stepping back from Sawyer but keeping my hand on her lower back. The contact grounds me, and I definitely need that right now. "Auston'll talk to them. This season has been bullshit."